Anger
by foREVerAvengedSevenfold
Summary: Prompt: Anger suffers as grief withdraws


**Anger**

**Prompt: Anger suffers as grief withdraws **

There is no doubt in my mind as I say that the moment I stood outside Barts hospital on that grim British afternoon, was honestly the worst day of my entire life. The moment—not even a minute—seemed to drag on for an eternity in my mind. The fall was equal measures of elegance and clumsiness; limbs flailing in the most clueless of ways. I didn't think anything could live up to those days serving in the army in terms of grief and horror—seeing innocent you lives lost. But I suppose, an innocent life _was_ lost that day.

Because he was innocent. In my whole life I had never met someone who had been innocent yet had committed so many sins There was no way that he could be considered a saint by any means, but he had a childlike innocence about him that no one seemed to understand; not even his own brother. It wasn't helped by the fact he was bullied his entire life; from his bother mocking him as a child, to Donovan calling him 'freak; right up until the day he died. I sometimes wondered whether the names ever affected him; when I asked, he said that they didn't, that they were merely a way for the 'ordinary little people' to express their jealousy towards him.

But I do have my doubts about whether they got to him. I think they did.

Another thing I often wonder is just what happened on top of that rooftop between that innocent man and his villainous polar opposite. Sherlock wasn't suicidal. I know that for a fact. I loose count of the amount of people that told me in one way or another that all geniuses get bored of life eventually. Sherlock wasn't bored of life—although Moriarty may have been. How far _did_ Moriarty have to push him before he jumped? I guess I'll never know whether he jumped of his own accord or whether Moriarty was holding him at gun-point, only blowing his own brains out after he saw the fall. There was something freeing about falling; a painless flying followed by nothingness.

Grief consumed me for months after I witnessed the fall. My best friend—my _life_—in many ways died with Sherlock that day. It wasn't until I met Mary that I regained any hope at all. The grief was unbearable however, and worse than I ever experienced. I found myself going to my therapist more than ever before; and finding in return, she was helping less than ever before. I still had requests filling my blog for weeks after his death, everything from case requests to offering condolences—but all the same, they reminded me of my lost detective all too much, and I inevitably stopped writing the blog. I don't think I made even one entry after his death infact—I tried too, I really did; but I couldn't without him. In many ways the blog had become the story of his life, rather than mine.

Despite all his quirks, he had become my rock in a time period that was hard for me; and he was always there for me in his own sociopath way. But not anymore.

As the grief of his passing began to fade, the hole it left began to fill with anger. I was angry he had left. I was anger he had jumped in front of me—that he jumped at all. Most of all, I was angry that _I_ was his suicide note. I would not obey to his request; the request to tell all the people close to him that he was a fraud. He was not a fraud. I know he wasn't. He was an utter genius, that was what he was; and I never once doubted him. So why did he try to convince me of his 'magic trick' at the end?

I should be angry at Moriarty. He was the one that caused this—all of this was his fault. I often wonder whether he took his own life of whether Sherlock took it for him. Neither would surprise me. The police said the only fingerprints on his gun were his own, but then again, they also said that it was suspicious. Not enough blood they said. The corpses head was blown apart from the close range gunshot, yet there was very little evidence of this in the surrounding area. It didn't help that the police could only rely on body identification of the corpse—Moriarty's actual DNA and dental records had conveniently disappeared. Richard Brooks's history was also quickly unraveled after the whole incident, leaving barely a trace of the once international acclaimed super villain. Whether the corpse was actually that of Moriarty's I suppose I will never know. Or not know until it's too late, I'm sure. Overtime it became obvious that everything surrounding Sherlock was suspicious. Or maybe that was just the effect the detective had on people; he made them question every little detail to assess its validity.

At the end of the day, all my questions about that day would go unanswered. And that is what sparked anger and grief within me in equal proportions.

**Reviews would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading. **


End file.
